Second chapter, especially for all of you who were gracious enough to respond to the first one, with thanks.
John groaned into his hands again, grounding himself in the reality of his breath against his palms. "That's it, then. I really am going mad."
"Which presumes you weren't already," the voice argued, followed by a sigh that John was amazed he remembered clearly enough for his imagination to reproduce with such accuracy. "But, really John, if you'd just open your eyes."
"Grieving people often hear voices," John reassured himself. Aloud, hoping his own voice would drown out the other, which obviously existed only in his imagination, because he was afraid to believe anything else. "Quite a normal phenomenon. But I'm not going to be seeing things as well. I'm just not. I'd have to section myself."
He'd remembered that exasperated huff, too. Usually accompanied by the word 'idiot'.
"Don't be more of an idiot than you must, John." A-huh, there it was, just as he remembered.
"Open your eyes, John. Look at me."
Oh, that voice. That tone. The one he'd always obeyed, frequently against his better judgement. John's eyes opened obediently, reluctantly, lids scraping the tender orbs beneath as though someone had forgotten to oil the hinges. A foolish fancy. Eyes couldn't really be wept dry, though he'd certainly tested the myth these past months.
John blinked furiously, but the image didn't waver. There was something in the chair. Someone. Sitting in his chair, laughing with everything except his mouth, was….
"Sher….no. You can't be." John shut his eyes tightly. Opened them again. Still there. "Can you?"
"Yes, actually, I can. I am." Sherlock – or his ghost, and if anyone was stubborn enough to cross back from the beyond, it'd be Sherlock Holmes, wouldn't it? – looked inordinately pleased with himself.
"Ah, I see you doubt your own eyes, John. Your ears too, obviously. Doubting your own senses, though after Baskerville, I don't suppose I can blame you for that. But really John, what is it going to take?"
The image in the chair hmmmed in thought, just as Sherlock used to, pointed chin resting on steepled fingers. John would've congratulated his mind on producing such a detailed hallucination if he wasn't so busy questioning its sanity.
"I don't suppose," it, he, oh damn it, He said slowly, "I'd achieve much by asking you to smell me, not with all the latent scents in the flat, so that leaves…ah, touch."
John gulped. Not a gentlemanly swallow. A gulp.
The quicksilver eyes fixed on John with purposeful intent, a twinkle growing from their depths. "I could pinch you, perhaps, that sovereign if whimsical method of determining whether one is dreaming?"
The image swooped towards him, and John had a second to think, that sod's been smoking again, before something clamped briefly on the flesh just above his elbow.
It hurt. It actually hurt. Quite a bit in fact. Those strong, bony fingers, of course. But then, John already knew he was susceptible to psychosomatic pain, so, no, not conclusive. But still, worth checking, even if just to reassure himself that it was, after all, just his imagination. Lack of sleep, maybe that extra glass of wine last night. Such a mistake, basically enabling Harry, really, he should've known better.
John rolled up his sleeve with a hand suddenly trembling, taking care not to inadvertently bruise his own flesh, and saw with a sense of growing wonder two reddening, finger-shaped spots on his upper arm.
"Just like the leg," he told himself, out loud, eyes fixed on the marks, daring them to fade. "Or stigmata. Well-know religious phenomenon. And I've been ranting on about believing in him, so there it is. I've started a cult. Me, myself, and my hallucinatory Holmes."
The voice rose over his ranting, impatient now, quite possibly anxious, even. "John, stop this. It's me. It's really me. A living, breathing, corporeal, non-hallucinatory version of the person you were foolish enough to trust before. Trust me now, John. Trust yourself. Trust your instincts. You knew I wasn't dead, and here I am, proving you right."
Finally, finally, John forced himself to look back at the chair, bracing himself to see nothing. It…he…Sherlock…was sitting bolt upright, if not leaning slightly towards John. Starlight eyes intent. Right there. Close enough to touch.
"Go ahead," Sherlock's voice teased, using Sherlock's mouth to speak through. "Go ahead, John. Touch me."
John surged to his feet. Sherlock rose with him, gangly limbs unfolding like amateur origami, head thrown back, that wonderful, infectious, manic laughter echoing back from walls that rang with his presence, rejoiced in his return.
John touched him alright. With his fist. On that very same spot on the jaw.
What else could you expect from a soldier faced with the return of a deserter?
Though apparently it still wasn't in him to damage the nose.
He missed the teeth too.
Thank you for reading. I suspect there will be one more chapter.